


tender love is blind

by pensee, vivisextion (pensee)



Category: Polar (2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Clothed Sex, Daddy Kink, Don't look to hard at the logistics of this, Duncan has two eyes, Duncan may or may not be a retired assassin, Duncan's closer to 60 than he is in canon, F/M, Grandpa Kink, I like to call it - Freeform, I'm Sorry, Mature Daddy kink, Smoking, THIS IS A BIG TIME AU, Tender loving may be blind but Duncan's got perfect depth perception, This is a reader insert fic, Underage Drinking, Unprotected sex while on contraceptives, Usually big time skips every time there's a break in the text, Vaginal Sex, Yes you read that right, lots of smoking, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: Pausing at the sliding door that opens to the back, you peek out the vertical blinds at the weird, muffled sounds traveling through the glass, biting down on a gasp when you see Papa hitting a duct-taped punching bag that you assumed was always just hanging on the back porch for show, like a basketball hoop in the front yard that no one ever uses.The muscles of his back are sleek and covered in a layer of sweat, and you can see a bead of it track down his spine as if you’re standing right there, not gaping from ten feet away like an idiot at the flex of his biceps as he draws back, arm shooting straight out and connecting with the bag till it sways dangerously on the thick hook that anchors it to the porch ceiling.Changing his stance in the quick, almost spritely way that boxers do, he turns so that his profile is in full view, and though his eyes are forward, your skin crawls as if you are being watched. You must be, you think, because why else would he be grinning that half-smile that looks so familiar, a look so rare you know you must’ve seen it before, to make your heart race this way.





	tender love is blind

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a bad decision and a photoset that got me cryin’. This was written with a particular person in mind reading it, and you know who you are and I’m sorry. This is a new extreme, even for me. Hope you enjoy anyway. <3

You were never formally introduced to him in any particularly meaningful way.

Papa was always just _there_—sitting in his armchair, sometimes snoring, TV droning constantly on about this bird migration or that savannah stampede—as much a part of the home as the kitchen table where you spent countless hours doing homework, or the shitty, brown-grassed back yard where you and AJ and MB used to make mud pies that got flung at each other till you were more wet dirt than little kid.

“I dunno,” AJ had shrugged, during middle school when all he could think of was how you’d suddenly turned out to be a little more interesting now that he had realized there were certain Coming of Age rituals he’d been neglecting. He’d been trying to kiss you for what seemed like the past two weeks, making excuses to get you alone and away from his sister and from Papa, though his grandfather always seemed to know exactly what he was up to, barging in at the last moment to ask AJ for various little favors on account of his “bad back”.

“Hurry up, lemme just—Just a little peck, before Papa comes in and sees us—.”

But it was too late already, Papa having found the two of you crouched in a little blanket fort you had built years ago in the garage, the flat line of his mouth displeased in the way all adults seemed to appear to you nowadays. By the look on his face, you decided you never wanted to grow up, so you’d never have to be that bitter.

“Mister Duncan,” you’d started, stupidly. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

Papa had almost smiled, then, the first time you’d ever seen it, and your heart skipped a little at the show of his nicotine-stained canines before his mouth flattened again. The corner of his moustache twitched before he spoke.

“Sure, it isn’t,” he’d said, and listening to your name in that strange accent you couldn’t name made your stomach fill with butterflies for some reason. You’d always assumed he didn’t know it. If he needed to get MB or AJ’s attention and you were closer, he’d usually just say, “Hey, girl,” or tap you on the shoulder till you looked up—and up and up and up—at him.

“Papa, I didn’t—,” AJ started, face entirely red, and you’d nearly laughed right at him, then. God, he’d been so embarrassed; and to think, not thirty seconds ago, you were going to give your dorky best friend his first kiss.

“I know what you were trying to do, AJ,” Papa had said, yanking you both out of the blanket fort by the collars of your shirts. “Come on; you don’t want to fuck up a good friendship by doing that.”

You’d blinked at the profanity, though AJ seemed entirely used to it already, and huffed before his eyes narrowed in annoyance at Papa.

The garage door banged open.

“There you two losers are!” MB said from inside the house. “I rewound the VHS again, and you didn’t even help me when the tape got stuck. Get in here, we still need snacks.”

Papa had given AJ a look, then, one you were intimately familiar with, Parent Speak for _we’ll talk about this later_.

You never found out what Papa said to AJ to get him to lay off, but summer came and AJ grew up, got a crush on Maria Melendez a grade above, and never tried to kiss you again.

Years have passed since that almost-kiss in the garage, and though your friendships with AJ and MB have weathered the test of time, not much else is going great for you at the moment.

The boy that had asked you to homecoming last week has just spun an awful story about how you were the one that begged him to go, about how shocked and appalled that he was that you asked. Since he is the more popular one—supposedly the more intelligent one if his Golden Boy GPA has anything to say about it—the entire school believes him. And it is all your fault for thinking someone known for kissing and telling would ever see you as something more than a neck-and-grope behind the gym between classes.

You want to go home, to cry alone in your bed and tell yourself that this can’t be the be all and end all of life, to satisfy yourself with fantasies of finally making something of yourself after high school, that this is where that disgusting boy who broke your heart is going to peak. But then you think of an empty house—mom and dad and older sister still working long hours to pay a crushingly high mortgage and put your sister through nursing school—and barren refrigerator, how cold and lifeless everything would seem if you were the only one there. Instead, you end up at MB and AJ’s doorstep before you really know what you’re doing.

You’d never really asked about their father—some slimy self-made businessman type who had apparently abandoned his kids with his wife’s father in order to chase an ever-growing bank account that belied his humble origins—or much about their past. You knew their favorite colors were purple and blue, that they were addicted to caffeine even though they hated the taste of coffee, but you were also starting to realize that maybe they could be the ones to understand you in this. That your friendship meant more to them than just having someone to talk with about the things that didn’t matter. That maybe you were close enough to being an adult, whatever that meant, and you could share with them the things that did.

Screen door banging hollowly against the front wall, you sigh as you unlock the door with the spare key, realizing that all the lights in the front are off and it’s unlikely MB or AJ are at home, with the kitchen and living area being empty and their preference for staying out here instead of in their rooms whenever they were at the house. Oddly, Papa’s armchair, booze-stained and sunken-in, you note, with a raised brow, is also vacant, and your eyes automatically fly to the refrigerator as you flick the light on, hoping there’s still at least a single beer left over on its usual shelf.

Cracking open the fridge with a hopeful smile, you slump disappointedly against the door as mounds and mounds of leftover takeout and condiments greet you, a mostly empty Heineken uncapped and long gone flat on the top shelf.

“Okay, whatever,” you shrug, downing the last of it in a single long draw, wincing at the taste. Damn. Can hardly get drunk on the dregs.

Then, you remember Papa’s bad habit—you can’t really even smell it anymore, you’ve been around secondhand smoke so long the insides of your nasal passages are probably coated in tar—and the cigarettes he stashes around the house. Moving to the living room and pilfering a lighter from the little TV table next to the ancient tube, you rifle around the small drawers in the coffee table. Then, when your search comes up empty, you go for the cabinet in the kitchen, behind the instant cake mix Papa inexplicably keeps stocked for AJ and MB’s birthday in May. Though of course you often steal these, as well, to sloppily fill sheet pans and bake lopsided cupcakes for midnight snacks as Papa firmly keeps his gaze on the TV and pretends not to notice.

A sudden wave of melancholy hits when you realize that this may be the last year you’ll ever be together again, and you come to the firm conclusion that this means you need the cigarettes you’re searching for even more. MB already knew she was going to go off to Northwestern on an academic scholarship, while AJ…Well, you didn’t know what AJ was going to do, but he and MB went everywhere together. You’d tried hard not to think about it, but of course, you couldn’t fight the passing of time.

Reasonably, you knew Papa had to keep some cigarettes in his bedroom, but invading his privacy like that, and not in any communal space like the living room, felt wrong, so you decide to check the last place they might be: the cheap, ugly glass table and two rusted department store chairs out back that were what passed for lawn furniture in a neighborhood like this.

Papa had an ashtray back there, and maybe a half-full carton, too, at any time. You hadn’t smoked much in the past, even at parties when everyone was doing it, but now’s a pretty good time to start.

Pausing at the sliding door that opens to the back, you peek out the vertical blinds at the weird, muffled sounds traveling through the glass, biting down on a gasp when you see Papa hitting a duct-taped punching bag that you assumed was always just hanging on the back porch for show, like a basketball hoop in the front yard that no one ever uses.

The muscles of his back are sleek and covered in a layer of sweat, and you can see a bead of it track down his spine as if you’re standing right there, not gaping from ten feet away like an idiot at the flex of his biceps as he draws back, arm shooting straight out and connecting with the bag till it sways dangerously on the thick hook that anchors it to the porch ceiling.

Changing his stance in the quick, almost spritely way that boxers do, he turns so that his profile is in full view, and though his eyes are forward, your skin crawls as if you are being watched. You must be, you think, because why else would he be grinning that half-smile that looks so familiar, a look so rare you know you must’ve seen it before, to make your heart race this way.

Then, you remember it. The garage. AJ trying to kiss you. Middle school.

You’ve grown a little since then, but you still have the phantom feeling of needing to look up, up, up, to meet his eyes, and this makes you burn warm. He’s still at least a head bigger than you, and you wonder, for a second, what it would be like for him to have been your comfort today (you’ve seen him hug AJ and MB, heard them jokingly complain about him crushing them, how strong his grip was, leaving little pink marks on their arms after he released them), instead of you seeking to self-medicate with cigarettes and booze.

Too late now, you think, as he gives the bag one last bone-jarring haymaker, pushes his sweaty hair out of his face and makes his way to the sliding door.

“Something I can do for you?” he asks, opening the pane of glass between you, a whiff of cigarette smoke and exertion-sweat causing your palms to clam up in return. Your skirt swishes around your thighs at the sudden, quick burst of air from the door opening, and you realize, for the first time today, how short the dress you picked up off the floor of your bedroom is. You hadn’t worn it with anything special in mind; just chosen the nearest (probably) clean thing.

“Where are the twins?” you squeak, placing your hands at your sides and trying desperately not to look like you’re trying to tug down to lengthen your hem. Papa had never looked at you like _that_, no matter how short your dress was, even though you know he had his weaknesses with women. Had seen him, sometimes, when you, AJ, and MB were up in the wee hours of the morning, laughing about something on TV while Papa and all variations of Party Girl—always in fancy, sequined something and extremely high heels—stumbled to his room and locked the door.

“AJ’s at Tiffany’s. MB is…I don’t know where she is. Community service project, some shit like that, probably.”

You snort. Papa made it no secret that he was not exactly thrilled she was going off to Northwestern, where he “couldn’t easily look after her” whatever that meant, but her scholarship requirements _were_ sort of crazy, including three hundred hours of community service before she even showed up on campus.

“I guess I thought she’d be around—Well, they both would, more. But I guess that’s dumb,” you sniffle, trying not to sound like you’re crying, although it just makes it worse. Shit was changing quickly, too quickly for you to handle effectively, and it was unsettling, to say the least.

“AJ’s not going up there with her, if that’s any comfort to you,” he says, and your eyes go wide, your jaw going slack.

“What?” you whisper, suddenly angry. “Why didn’t he tell me himself? I—.”

“He got a job at the heavy equipment dealership in Ormond. Tiffany’s father owns the company,” he says dryly as if to say we’ll see how long that lasts. “So, you’ll still be seeing him around.”

You’d chosen to stay at a city college instead of trying for anywhere else, knew it was cheaper and more practical since your parents, your practically nonexistent bank account, and your student loans didn’t need to worry about all the extra frills that MB had decided to take on by going away to school.

“What about you?” you ask, before you can stop yourself, cringing at your tone, which was borderline flirtatious. No brain-to-mouth filter when you’re sad, check and check.

Papa shrugs, stepping into the house, shutting the sliding door behind him, and shouldering you aside as easily as if you’d been light as air, the thick hair on his chest brushing against your arm for the briefest of seconds.

“I’m retired,” he says. “I’m always here.”

And he walks off without saying anything else, not exactly one for conversation anyway, but your throat closes up around words _you_ didn’t say.

_Oh, shit_, you think, watching his retreating back—that gloriously fit, shining expanse of muscle.

_Oh, no, no, no, no, no_.

Three hours of calculus homework later, and you still don’t know how to integrate the question-indicated shaded area beneath a curve. You’d passed most of your math classes in high school, but college is a whole fucking different ballgame.

Your eyes were hurting an hour ago, but now they’re weepy, too, AJ having slammed the refrigerator door with a loud thud that made you jump in your seat, after you’d asked him—maybe at a bad time, although every time was a bad time nowadays—whether it was okay if you canceled your movie plans this weekend because he seemed exhausted and should get some sleep in his free time instead.

Although he still had the job that Tiffany, his old girlfriend, had helped him get, her father, who had never really liked AJ, made sure all the bosses gave your best friend a hard time at work. It was a toxic environment, but it paid reasonably well, and you could tell AJ was afraid of quitting in case he couldn’t find another job. He had his own place by now, but his roommates also kept weird hours and played music loud enough to wake the dead, and he’d been staying here for the past week, just to get some shut-eye without having to worry about waking up in the middle of a rager.

Putting your pencil down, you go to the hard-water-stained coffee maker in the corner and get out the instant powder from the cupboard again, mechanically going through the motions although you’re not exactly sure where they’re leading at this point.

Your sister had finished nursing school, and now had such a great job (with a surprisingly generous salary) that your parents were pushing you to follow in her footsteps. So: calculus. Then biology, and chemistry, and health science and nutrition.

“Fuck,” you hear from the hallway, then something heavy stumbling out of his cave, and you smile a little, despite your shitty mood.

“There’s gonna be coffee in a minute, Papa,” you say, as Duncan collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, head in his hands.

(You had pointedly ignored the clearly still-drunk hooker who wandered out the front door half an hour ago with her panties tangled around one of her stick-thin thighs, but that was a conversation for another time, or maybe never.)

“I’m never going to fucking do that again. Too much,” he grumbles, slipping into another language, and you don’t think it’s the one he used to speak when you were younger, whenever MB used to do well at the piano recitals she had long since given up and you had to stare between them because you had no idea what was going on, them slipping off into some other world you weren’t quite a part of. “I’m an old man—Shouldn’t be drinking like that.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking like you do, either,” you point out, pouring him a piping hot cup, black, with a dash of bourbon, because you know he will snipe at you if you don’t add to the misery of his hangover by adding a bit of the good stuff. “But you do anyway.”

“Fuck you very much, little miss, you’re a joy this morning,” he chuckles, and something inside of you warms, because he’s only recently started joking with you like this, and it feels like you’ve unlocked some secret door, you practically drowning in eagerness to see what lies behind.

“It’s afternoon, Papa. Almost night, actually.”

“That’s right. Your classes ended at three,” he says, and you swallow, because you hadn’t realized he kept track. It was one thing for him to know AJ’s work schedule, or dates for the holidays when MB would fly back home, but this was especially unusual. It wasn’t like you were his responsibility to worry about, anyway.

“Um, yeah. Here’s coffee,” you say dumbly, putting it on the table next to him, wondering how he knows your whereabouts when you spend only about half as much time here as you used to, but oddly flattered nonetheless.

“Thanks, baby,” he says, offhandedly, and since you’re watching his face so closely, you see the muscle below his eye flinch, as if he hadn’t meant for it to slip out, though he groans like a wild animal and buries his head in his arms a moment later, the expression gone before you have the time to process fully what it meant.

His big palm finds itself at your back a few beats later, and you nearly jump at the contact as he barely presses down on the small of it before letting go.

Leaving him to his agony, you resign yourself to your own private torture as you gather your math homework and race out onto the back porch like your ass is on fire, replaying in your head the exact heat of his touch all the way.

Not meaning for it to become a Thing meant you’re looking out for yourself. You haven’t forgotten his words from all those years ago—no need to fuck up a good friendship with a kiss (_or more, or more, oh God, do you want it to be more_)—but you find yourself doing stupid little things for him anyway.

Buying an extra pack of cigarettes from the lady at the corner store who knows the law and doesn’t care if she’s technically selling some to a girl six months shy of 21. Bringing him coffee when he comes to the table hungover, eyes bloodshot, with a discomfited twist to his mouth. You even make the mistake of tugging a bit of crumbs off the corner of his moustache as he stands to take his plate to the sink, and take his half-eaten dinner from him before he can protest.

AJ is in his room having a long and desperately needed nap before you all call MB at Northwestern in another hour. According to the few letters she’s sent, things are not as easy as she thought they would be over there, either.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but you can tell he doesn’t really want to be the one to have microwaved his sad TV dinner, plopped it on a plate, and have to do the dishes as well, so you push him playfully back into his seat and try not to linger on the feel of that barrel chest below your fingertips.

“Shush, you’re gonna wake AJ up, and then he’s gonna come stomping out here with his face all red and scream at us,” you snort, because while AJ’s personal life had improved—he’d somewhat reconciled with Tiffany’s father over the whole breaking-up-with-Tiffany situation—his hours were still long, and his temper still short.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Papa frowns, mocking. AJ was taller than him, but reed-thin, and everyone knew who would win in a fight if AJ’s short fuse ever led anyone to blows.

_And remember the way he was hitting that punching bag in the back_, you can’t help but think. Years later, the image was still fresh in your mind, flitting through like a hummingbird at the oddest of times. Sometimes late at night when no one else was awake to judge you in your lonely, tiny apartment by the bay.

“He could use someone to keep him in line,” Papa continues, surprisingly carrying on the conversation, getting up from the table to lean on the counter next to you as you soap up the dinner utensils. “MB used to be that for him—.”

“But she can’t anymore. Phone calls aren’t going to cut it, I know.” You don’t know what to say, though. It’s AJ’s life. You can’t interfere with something that’s not really your business, even if he is your best friend.

“He often says that he wishes you were here more often,” Papa says, arms crossed and looking at you, and it’s not the same way he’s looked at you before, trying to be paternal, or even the way he dismissed you that day you eavesdropped on him boxing, teasing but with better things to do.

“Papa, I—,” you start, and suddenly, it occurs to you how dirty the word sounds in your mouth, a dozen times far removed from whenever the twins call him that, especially with the way your voice goes breathy at the end, your hands clench buried in the soap suds in the sink.

You try to track him moving in your periphery, but he disappears behind you until you register, with the tiniest whimper, his big hands cradling your pelvis, large enough to span the entire width of you.

“Maybe those are my words, not his. But they still mean the same thing,” Duncan mutters, his lips—soft, so soft—and scratchy beard on your neck.

“I—I doubt it,” you laugh nervously, trying your damndest not to thrust your ass backwards instead of crushing yourself to the edge of the sink, trying your damndest not to check if he is as hard as you are suddenly wet for him, soaking for his touch.

_I doubt AJ would ever think of ambushing me in the kitchen and grabbing me like you are (like I wanted you to, like I wanted you to for so long_).

“You’ve never been good with words, Duncan,” you decide to say, because he hasn’t. “Are you going to show me instead?”

And you yelp, because he doesn’t waste a moment, literally scooping you up by the waist and heading somewhere with you—_the bedroom is somewhere, you fucking idiot_.

“Not in the fucking bedroom!” you hiss, because his bed is across the narrow hall from AJ’s, and the last thing you need is for AJ to startle awake mid-fuck.

_Because that’s what’s going to happen right now_, you tell yourself, struggling to breathe. _You’re gonna fuck your best friend’s grandfather_, and you’re so fucking wet for it you actually see a pale string of slick stretch between your panties and your cunt as you lift up your dress with one hand and help him drag down your underwear with the other.

You’re on the living room couch, which is just as saggy and lumpy as his chair, but that isn’t really your concern, because you’re basically balanced along the back of it, spine digging into the frame as he holds your lower half in midair and flings your cheap, clearance rack panties onto a cushion, holding you in place by the thighs as he kneels down to lap, slowly and toe-curlingly thorough, at your dripping hole all the way to your already sensitive clit.

His moustache tickles and scrapes, and you scream-whimper at the silver top of his head as it bobs between your thighs, feeling yourself drip as his saliva and your juices run down the curve of your ass.

Dragging a hand through your folds and dislodging his tongue, you gasp and debate to yourself whether letting yourself come once or holding off will make it better when he finally gets inside of you. Whenever you’ve come with partners before (or the one time you actually found someone who knew what they were doing well enough to make you come twice), it was usually with this lukewarm sensation that honestly barely measured up to the times you’d touch yourself, knowing your body well enough to know what you liked.

You always got looser after a few orgasms on your own, and maybe that was best, because the words still running like a frantic ticker tape through your mind were _This is Papa, this is their grandfather, you can’t fuck their grandfather, you can’t ruin something good with_—.

But those words fly out of your head the moment he looks up at you, dark eyes narrowed amusedly at how much you’ve already soaked his face, and asks, guttural, “Are you on birth control?”

_Fuck_, you shudder, nearly clenching your thighs back together for friction because _did that fucking mean what I think it means_?

“Do you not have condoms, you heathen,” you breathe out, through your nose, because if you have to manage any more words, you think it might just devolve into one long, wordless moan.

“I didn’t say that,” Papa smirks, and _oh shit_, you think, _how long as he been fantasizing about giving me a creampie_, he was so ready with that answer.

You’d been taking your cycles of pills like second nature after you had an allergic reaction to one of the cheaper injections, so yes, your answer was yes, to that.

_Spit it out_!

“Um,” you croak, “Y-Yeah, I mean, I’m o-on a hormonal contraceptive.”

Future nurse, following in your sister’s footsteps, and all that.

“Good,” he says, almost curtly, like this is some sort of weird fetish checkup where there’s a perfectly logical reason you’re half-naked with legs spread on the back of his sofa.

_Keep telling yourself that_, you gulp, as he rises to his full height, still holding your right thigh clamped in his big hand, and unzips himself from those ratty cargo pants he always wears, the bulge both obscenely tight and obscenely big, and you see why not a moment after, eyelashes fluttering at the size of the cock loosely held in his fist.

“I-Is that gonna fit?” you murmur, realizing that though you may have slept with other people before, they were barely a blip on the radar in comparison to Papa.

“We’ll try to make it fit,” he says, in a kindly tone that really shouldn’t work in this situation, but nothing is the way it’s supposed to be working today, and you figure what’s one more thing to add to the list.

Gasping as you reach out to hold his tip, working the foreskin back as you tentatively stroke his shaft, you help him press the head to your still-dripping cunt, biting your lip as he tilts you back at an even sharper angle that makes the blood rush to your head as you both guide his cockhead into you.

Would he stop, if you passed out like this, all the blood gone to your head? Or would he just keep fucking you in a different position until you came to, his cock still deep inside?

The wet squelch as he slides through your liquids makes you blush, flush even more intense as he says, low, “Take off your dress. Touch yourself.”

He’s already got a thumb on your clit as he eases himself in deeper, pulling you closer by the thigh, so touching yourself there is not what he means.

Getting your dress off and over your head is a feat and a half, but the angle or gravity or some cosmic force that wants this to happen helps you slip the light fabric off over your burning face, and tangles in your hair only briefly before you yank it free.

Your bra, also as cheap as the panties that are probably somewhere near your right elbow at the moment, is also from the discount pile from whatever department store you bought it at years ago, but it is at least moderately sexy, a cheap lace pattern in pale pink that barely hides the outline of your hard nipples beneath the thin fabric. You bought it because it was comfortable; you never envisioned you’d actually need it in a scenario like this.

Palming the hard tip of your right nipple, you pinch it between your fingers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and keen at the hard shove he gives a moment later, watching you fondle yourself, being watched as his stoic expression breaks for a second, an almost savage snarl crossing his features before he remembers to school himself.

You wonder, for a second, what sort of job he did to let him retire so early, with enough money to afford a place—modest as it was—bigger than the house that you grew up in, enough money to afford a truckload of booze every week and cigarettes every day.

One strap of your bra slips off, your breast spilling out of the loose cup, goosebumps breaking out all over your skin as he growls, “Leave it on,” and proceeds to sheathe himself all the way inside you until you can’t do anything but sob helplessly at the wet sounds between your bodies as he pulls halfway out and starts fucking you, your tits shaking as he pounds you hard.

His thumb is rubbing over the hood of your clit, at your lips where you’re spread around him, and you embarrassedly begin to rub at both of your nipples—one exposed, one still covered by your bra—the little sparks of pleasure another way to send you over the edge too soon, but you want it, you’ve been thinking about it in the back of your mind for so long.

Your cunt aches with how tight you are around him, stretched and spread so obscenely wide you’re sure your hole won’t be able to close up around his come when he’s done with you, lips swollen and insides gaped as he drips down your legs.

Eyes rolling back in your head, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the high whine that escapes, remembering, somewhere, that AJ is asleep, and it would be disastrous if he woke to find this happening in the living room.

“Someday, I’ll take you somewhere where you cam scream as loud as you like,” Papa says, in that same low, gravel tone that you’ve never heard from him before today, and it should sound threatening, but you feel yourself leaking slick along his shaft, and you think you’d like to take that threat any day, if he was the one doling it out.

_Someday. He wants this some other day, too_.

Considering it in the heat of sex is monumentally stupid, but you want to believe, in your heart of hearts, that he’s telling the truth. That he wouldn’t keep fucking hookers or party girls with daddy issues, that he would still be the lonely old man you knew and lo—Well, that he’d still be that same old man, but a little less lonely.

_But you can’t stay here with him forever_, some rational part of you reminds.

_Why can’t I_? you think, whining in a handful of pathetic pants as he rubs at your clit one more time and the pressure builds in your gut, that little movement enough to white your brain out for a few seconds as you realize you’re coming, his still-clothed balls slapping against your ass, the sound your thighs make as he fucks you echoing loudly enough across the whole house, you’re sure, that AJ will be standing at the mouth of the hall, speechless as his grandfather fills your clenching cunt to the brim.

“Papa,” you mouth, into your own palm as he pulls out, a splatter of your own liquids staining your thighs, and he’s lifting you again, light as a feather, positioning you so that you’re bent over the couch, as he kicks your legs apart. You can feel the thick, worn fabric of his pants tickling your ass as he urges you up on tip-toe, his zipper pressing an indentation into your left cheek. Breasts squashed to the back of the couch and your long hair spread out over the cushions as you wait there, braced with both hands, you forget yourself by letting out a choked off wail as you hear a door—AJ’s bedroom door—creak open.

“Papa,” he calls, voice loud in the hall though he doesn’t emerge, sounding groggy. “Did MB call yet?”

Duncan grunts, and you nearly scream as he spreads your ass so he can shove his cock back into your pussy.

“No,” he says, as if he’s not balls-deep in you again, and AJ makes a dissatisfied noise.

“Always late,” he says. “Whatever. Wake me up when the phone rings.”

“Hn,” Duncan rumbles in acknowledgment, the bit of softness at his belly pressing into your back as he puts a big hand around your neck and hauls you upright. Still wearing his long-sleeved shirt, you can smell the beginnings of his sweat, and you try to comfort yourself in his closeness, body tense around him and below him until you hear the click of AJ’s door slamming shut.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you pant to yourself, his cock filling you everywhere, but also hitting that spot on your front wall that makes your pelvic muscles clench up and makes you feel half like you want to crawl out of your skin. Yet another layer of thick, sticky-clear wetness coats his cock as you massage your swollen clit, rubbing your thumb around the head as you spread your fingers around the hood.

His hand is still around your throat, and you lick needily at his fingers as he presses them over your mouth.

“You can be a good girl and stay quiet for Papa,” he says, not even making it a question, and you hear him make this fucking sound, like he’s about to—.

You know what hawking to spit sounds like, but it still makes you about jump out of your skin when you feel a warm wad of saliva land on your lower back as he shoves you forward again, hand on the back of your neck instead, and then he does it again, this time using both his hands to hold you open, trusting you to balance yourself along the sofa.

The wet pools at the divot in your spine, so slowly tracing down and down as he fucks you raw, you on the verge of coming again from so many things—his hands, his warm saliva snaking its way down your crack, the little animal-like noises he makes like he can’t stop himself because you’re being so sweet for him, just lying there and taking it.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, feeling a thick finger join the bit of wet at your asshole—_what did you think was going to happen?_—and push in to the middle joint, the calluses of his opposite hand scraping against your hip as he lazily fucks into your cunt while fingering your ass.

“Please, please, Papa, I can’t—,” you pant, pleading, but you nonetheless greedily jut your ass out for a second finger as he withdraws the first, touching you as if he’s playing with an interesting toy he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

You really don’t think you can take anymore, and he doesn’t make you, although you feel like shattering when he pumps into you once, twice, and then comes, a hot rush of liquid that you feel coating your insides, and you shiver around him as he withdraws, his fingers still fucking your ass with the same terrible expertise he’d used to rub your clit earlier.

A fat bead of spunk begins to roll down your thigh, and you slide your fingers beneath you, to the mess steadily leaking from you and coating your lips, hump your own hand as Papa fingers your hole, and come with a sudden blurt of clear juice across the three fingers cupped against your mound.

“Fuck,” you exhale, temples dripping sweat, long hair matted in a nasty tangle around your face, dripping semen and spit and so fucking ecstatic you could cry.

Papa chuckles and goes the small way to the kitchen to find a towel to clean up with.

Heart rate slowing, pulse not pounding so hard, you consider what’s just happened, and watch him for any signs of skittishness, for any indications of regret.

There was a reason he relied so heavily on party girls and working girls, and it wasn’t because he was decent at pillow talk after the fact.

You feel ashamed, seeking approval from someone you literally just let you bend over the couch like a whore, but the feeling was going to be there nonetheless.

Papa was Papa, and you’d always loved him, in some simple, quiet way that matched his simple, quiet nature. This was something separate, but not separate, at the same time.

Things had already changed so much. Would this really have to change too?

The morning after—or the day after, you guessed, it was already close to dusk—was hardly ever fun for anybody, but to your surprise, Papa has already gone back to his usual self, sitting in front of the TV in his chair and doing whatever it was that he did all day and all night that wasn’t eating, sleeping, or fucking some girl he’d never see again.

_Or maybe not_, you think, smiling, AJ out of the house and no one who knows you’re here except your less-than-suspicious sister who had eaten lunch with you earlier today and not bothered to have any more scintillating personal conversation other than to make a concerted effort not to fall asleep into her salad.

“You’re not watching nature documentaries, or falling asleep in front of them for once,” you say, perching on the arm of his chair and trying very diligently (in your opinion) not to choke on your own saliva at the appearance of something on his face that may or may not be actual reading glasses as he squints down at a book with a title you guess is probably in German (but then again, you were never good with languages).

“Since when do you read something that’s not a ‘big boob babes sit on muscle cars’ magazine?” you ask, a sad little noise caught in your throat as he puts the book down and takes off his glasses, which he places into the breast pocket of his shirt like an actual old man.

“Since when do you come over and think you have a right to sit on my chair like this?” he counters, and you squirm playfully as he does that damned Perfect Thing—picking you up like a doll and depositing you into his lap, his thighs bracketing you, your ass pressed up against his crotch.

“I think you’re gonna need a bigger chair for this to be comfortable,” you say, exaggeratedly sensual, and he snorts as you peck him on the cheek.

Stilling for a moment, you realize that never in your mini-marathon fuck yesterday had he kissed you, or you kissed him.

He frowns, slightly, but leans in to ghost his lips over the corner of your mouth, you twisting back to turn it into a proper kiss though you can’t stop giggling at the tickle of his moustache and scruffy beard on the soft skin of your face.

“Guess you’ll just have to give me beard burn somewhere else so AJ doesn’t get suspicious,” you find yourself saying, trailing off into a pleased moan as he wraps a hand around your thigh—around basically the entire fucking thing, _how_—and rubs his hand up beneath your skirt.

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, drawing out a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table drawer, lighting one for himself and pointedly not offering you your own.

“Secondhand smoke is actually worse, you know,” you say, and he shrugs, you feeling it more than seeing it as his body moves behind you, his belly pressing perfectly into the small of your back. God, you want it there all the time, and you haven’t technically even seen him entirely undressed yet.

“You can take that up with me when you’re a little older,” he jokes, and you spin around to glare incredulously at him, though you’re a little distracted by how wicked-pointy his teeth are as he laughs at you, how much you wonder what it would be like to feel more than the scrape of a beard against your inner thighs.

“Sure thing, Grandpa,” you scowl, crossing your arms and settling back against his chest.

“Don’t be like that,” he says, smile in his tone as his fingers tickle your sides, his voice at your ear, lips on the shell.

“So, what,” you sigh, after a few steady minutes of not bothering back to hold back your moans or the frankly embarrassing amount of panting he evokes with a few light touches, your underwear steadily growing wetter and wetter as that damned hand massages the vee of your legs. “You’re just gonna sit here a-and, ah—Just grope me—grope me all night long?”

“I’m eventually going to fuck you in my bed, but there’s no need to rush things,” he says, very matter-of-fact, in a knowing tone that has your head spinning already.

It’s early Saturday night, AJ won’t be home till midnight or later. Sure, sure, no need to rush. Right.

“Why,” he adds, his laughter vibrating up your spine where you’re pressed so close together. “Got a hot date?”

You find yourself smiling, rising to his awful attempt at humor despite yourself. “Well, I’d say he’s about average. Smokes too much. Commitment issues, if his sleeping around is anything to go by.”

“Sounds like a real catch.”

“Yeah, really. Well. He’s slightly overprotective of his grandkids, but he’s always been there for them. And. He’s saved me from making some stupid decisions before, too. There’s something about him.”

“What’s that.”

“Well, he’s old as fuck and reads German literature for fun, and apparently I’m interested in that.”

Duncan scoffs. “Staying with me tonight is really your definition of a ‘hot date’?” There’s actual uncertainty in his voice, you have more practice hearing it now, and you stroke your fingers along the thick forearm holding you to him.

“I dunno,” you say, “Maybe I just didn’t have anything better to do.”

“Pity. People your age are usually awash in big plans,” he says.

“I don’t think I’m _awash_ in anything right now,” you say, standing to kiss him on the forehead. “At least not for another few minutes yet. But I’ll go get us some beers to fix that, be right back.”

“‘Us’ some beers, did you say?” he says. “My hearing must be failing me, as well as my eyes.”

“Um, no, if I’m old enough for you to fuck, I’m old enough to have a beer with you,” you say, as he takes a fortifying puff of his cigarette and exhales through his nose like a frustrated dragon.

“Tonight is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he says, as if to himself, but you hear him anyway as you slam the fridge door exaggeratedly loud to warn him you’re coming back around the corner.

“Relationships always are,” you smile, and wrap your arms about his shoulders as the hand holding his cigarette palms the curve of your spine.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel something’s changed, as he settles you onto his lap, you toasting each other as he begrudgingly lets you have your own beer, pulling out his glasses again so he can read to you in terribly accented German that makes you giggle although you have no idea what he’s saying.

_Well, whatever’s changed_, you think, slowly getting drunk on the contact and the booze, _it’s definitely something I can handle. _

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the title is from one of the classic songs that randomly appeared in the middle of Polar (unless I was having auditory hallucinations, which is possible too), because I appreciate Continuity (okay ofc except for the two eye thing and the Duncan having kids or grandkids thing, my bad). 
> 
> @penseeart on Twitter to listen to me cry way too much about how much I love Duncan Vizla.


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